The way to enjoy winter, or at least get through it sane, is to play in the snow. This holds true for adults as well as children. Maybe even more so for adults. During Vermont’s five month winters, your life is dominated by snow: you shovel it, plow it, drive in it, fret about it, and try not to break your neck as you navigate through it. You ‘d better find a way to enjoy it.
It is pretty. I love the way it reflects light, not losing one lumen coming out the perpetually gray sky. Frankly, we gloomy northerners need ‘em all.
I love the sound of snow settling as I ski or walk across new snowfall.
I love the smell of snow, the crisp cold it gives off is unlike any other. Granted, it’s more pleasant when the temperature is above 20 degrees F, but still deeply refreshing.
I even like snow fleas, a Hyporgastrura also known as springtails that look like pepper shaken over the snow. You can see them on warm winter days near the base of trees.
Not being hugely coordinated, and not wanting to spend $100/day on a lift ticket, downhill skiing, though wildly invigorating, is not my first choice. I learned with my children, happily going up and down the bunny slope at Wachusett Mountain in Massachusetts.
I grew up cross-country skiing, back when you had to apply waxes before during and after your outing (or so it seemed). Its consistency reminded me for some reason of Vicks Vapo-Rub for skis—sticky, lumpy and gummy, especially when applied without the proper Nordic vigor—that left one unable to glide at all, with four inches of snow stuck firmly to the bottoms of the skis.
Now I have graduated to a pair of skis with ingenious plastic scales that allow me to ski (sort of) up hills and glide down them pretty handily too. Avoiding trees and being able to stop are still challenges. Now that I’ve been on downhill skis, the edges on Nordic skis are to me unconvincing. That’s why golf courses are good—not too many steep hills, or too many things to bump into.
My father perfected a stopping method he called “the bush grab”. Taken out weekly on woody, steep trails by good skiers, a few of whom were in serious training, he controlled his speed by proceeding from tree to tree, instead of just flinging himself down the hill. He actually enjoyed it.
I never mastered it. In fact, I developed a distaste for out-of-control sliding in any form. Maybe it had to do with a few car trips sideways down our local hill as we tried to catch the school bus at 6:10 AM, before the snowplows had plowed or sanded. I suddenly just had enough.
Which brings me to snowshoeing. Modern snowshoes are a real improvement over the old heavy wooden models. They are smaller, much lighter, and generally easier to get into and out of. They even have metal cleats on the bottom so you can scale the iciest hill without slipping backwards. You begin to feel a little like Spider Man with your new mobility. While arduous, it is still easier to break trails than on skis.
For me, snowshoeing presents fewer issues about style and technique, prowess or competition. I don’t have to be great at it to enjoy it. They provide transportation over the snow, into the woods. I can go slowly enough to see things like coyote trails, fisher tracks and where moose have nibbled the bark off striped maple (hence the name “moosewood”) or snow fleas.
What snowshoes do is get me out, exploring and enjoying the woods. They provide, if not an experience of being “one with nature”, then maybe just unselfconscious joy.
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